Saturday, April 28. 6:37 am.
I should be sleeping by now, but anxiety keeps me wide awake. Today is the day—I meet him, the mystery man. Just a dinner, but the thought of awkward silence terrifies me. I need to keep the conversation flowing. What if he's an introvert like me? How am I supposed to start the conversation?
I anxiously flipped from one side of the bed to the other, the mattress creaking loudly and waking Rita in the living room.
"Goodness, Charlotte, I just came back! Let me sleep!"
"Sorry, I'll upgrade our bed as soon as I have the money!" I called back, hardly believing my own promise.
"That's the conversation I like! Good night"
Soon, I heard her snoring again.
Today didn't feel like just any day—it felt like sitting on a ticking bomb. I had about ten hours to transform myself into a less anxious, more talkative person. And, of course, I needed to figure out my outfit and makeup—something I'd never really done before. With each passing minute, the pressure rise, and I was left alone in my bedroom with no help.
Okay, time to try on dresses. I'm sure Rita wouldn't mind—considering the situation.
"What would he like? A long, sensual dress or something short and playful?" I wondered aloud.
Oh wow. I can't believe I am thinking this way. Rita's influence really has some effect on me.
Speaking of that, for the last few days I spent less time reading history, which is not normal. But how am I supposed to focus on it when my life is turning 180 degrees?
I try on different dresses, finally settling on a red one. Rita has great taste—some of her clothes remind me of Victorian styles. I've always loved Victorian and bohemian dresses.
When I was little, I used to fantasize about living in a castle. Each day, I'd imagine receiving new, posh dresses to impress everyone in my imaginary kingdom.
But as I got older, those dreams shifted into nightmares. There's one dream I remember vividly:
I was hurrying down a long hallway. Ordinary people, or maybe peasants, stood on either side. As I passed, each one began to scream and turned to stone, like something out of a Medusa myth.
After that, I stopped my daydreams and threw myself into factual reality—mainly world history.
The red dress I chose reminds me of that nightmare.
This time, though, it feels like a shield against the unknown. If things go wrong, maybe I'll be the one turning him to stone.
Saturday, April 28. 4:50 pm.
Rita has a mom role today , as she was running around apartment like she is getting late to a big family vacation and everything depends on her.
"And remember, Charlotte, keep eye contact and really listen to what he says! Don't talk too much about yourself - ask him questions! Men love talking about themselves."
"I get it, but I still don't see how conversation alone will make him like me..." I said, finishing my lip gloss.
Despite the red dress, I kept my makeup simple. Rita said I should highlight my youth, so less is more.
"Don't even try to understand. Men and logic don't exist when it comes to successful relationship. He will like you because of how he feels around you."
I went out from bathroom and showed myself to Rita.
"Turn around for me!"
I turned a few times and even smiled. I could see myself in reflection and I was proud of how I look, not of what I am about to do.
"Look at her! The next supermodel! Charlotte, why haven't you started modeling before? You look stunning!"
Rita looked genuinely happy for me, beaming with pride like a big sister.
"Thank you, I hope I won't puke on a date. Have you sent me the address and instructions how to reach the restaurant?"
"Five times already, and this is the sixth time we're talking about it! I should find you some natural anti-stress meds-you're losing your mind over this. You'll have plenty of dates in your life; are you always going to be like this?"
"Rita, just let me be myself this once - stressing and overthinking. Next date, I promise I'll be calmer."
"Bet! Okay, it's time to go, and my time to get ready for work! Clean apartment, please!"
Rita kindly pushed me away from the apartment and closed the door, knowing that if she didn't do it, I wouldn't do it myself.
I was told to walk a few blocks away from Rita's apartment and wait for a black Mercedes with the license plate number 303. The reason I couldn't be picked up at her place was that Rita cares about her safety.
So I walk, slowly. Rita gave me her old pair of heels, but they look brand new. I wish I'd had more practice walking in heels; maybe that would've given me a bit more confidence about the upcoming dinner date.
I arrive at the pick-up point, and just as I expected, the car is there—parked alone on the street. I wonder what the driver is thinking. He's probably trying to guess why his boss is picking up girls from one of New York's less reputable neighborhoods.
As always, my mind went into another race with its own thoughts. I was on the verge of blacking out when the Mercedes door opened. I saw a middle-aged man, dressed in a formal suit who clearly knew I am his client. He looked at me a few more seconds and said :
"Miss, are you Charlotte?"
" Yes! That's me. Thank you for showing up from the car, otherwise I would never guessed it is my drive for today!"
I hope I didn't sound sarcastic. I really should have practiced talking to older men somewhere. The driver is my warm-up before the actual exam.
"Let me help you out, young lady. My name is John. I'll be your driver this evening," he said, opening the back door for me.
"Thank you, John."
I stood by the car, wondering how to get in without looking awkward. He's definitely thinking this is my first time wearing these heels!
Finally, I settled into the car, and from that moment on, everything felt like a fever dream. The Mercedes interior was a creamy beige with leather seats and dark brown wood panels gleaming with a shiny finish. In the back seat pockets were water bottles, mint gum, and small packs of tissues.
While I was still gathering around, John interrupted me with a question:
"Miss Charlotte, would you like me to turn on the radio? Any music genre you like?"
"Oh... I like pop music—anything from the early 2010s will do!"
John turned on a pop radio station.
"What's My Name?" by Rihanna started playing.
I lost myself in the song, grateful it was upbeat—otherwise, I'd probably be shaking with anxiety. I popper a piece of mint gum in my mouth, and it was the best mint gum I'd ever tasted.
I couldn't help but wonder: Is my date really such a caring man, or is he just so used to this, that he knows how to make girls like me, well, us -comfortable? The thought made me a little uneasy. It wasn't a short ride; New York traffic was as bad as ever, and the restaurant was in the building I'd never passed before.The driver had to wait in a jam near the entrance because of many people were coming out and going in.
I thanked the driver and stepped inside. I checked my phone—Rita had messaged me with instructions about my date. The restaurant's name is "Flames," and, it is located on the 71st floor.
I quickly made my way to the elevator that would take me up. I took three deep breaths and prepared myself to meet him.As soon as I stepped out of the elevator, a friendly woman greeted me with a question:
"Good evening, Miss. Welcome to Flames."
Rita had told me what to say if I got lost: just mention I had a reservation and my date was waiting. So I replied,
"I have a reservation here—my date should be waiting for me."
Oh goodness. It felt incredibly awkward to say that while she stared at me.
"Miss, you and your date are the only guests this evening. The whole restaurant is yours tonight. Let me escort you to the best table. Mr. Montrose is waiting for you. Please follow me."
So his last name is Montrose... interesting. I'm sure that belongs to some old English family—maybe even royalty.I followed the hostess to a table right by the panoramic window, offering the best view of New York. At the table, I saw someone's back. The back slowly turned toward me.
There he was—the mystery man I hadn't been able to stop thinking about for the last 24 hours, Mr. Montrose.
"Good evening, Charlotte. My name is Alexander."
He stood and gently took my hand.
"Please, take a seat," he continued.
"You look gorgeous—better than I could have imagined. I'm glad my friend told me about you."
As I sat down, I glanced at him quickly, trying to process what I was seeing. Alexander looked to be in his fifties, with light brown hair and brown eyes, and barely any wrinkles. His forehead was so smooth it made me question his age. He was in excellent shape, too.
Okay, Charlotte, it's your turn to start the conversation.
"Thank you, Alexander. I'm a little shy, so don't mind if I look at you for a long time without talking. This is my first time."
This sounded just right. I can see his pupils dilated.
He smiled.
"You're very sweet, Charlotte. Would you like some wine to start? I think it might help you relax."
I hadn't even noticed the waiter appear behind me, quietly waiting for my answer.
"No, I am not...I have an important day tomorrow, so I should go to bed with clear mind tonight"
Shit, I almost said I am not allowed to have wine. Actually, all kinds of spirit triggers my memories about mom, so I will never touch alcohol.
Alexander replied,
"No wine for the lady, but I'll have a glass of your best semi-dry red, please."
I heard waiter walking away without saying anything. I guess this is what good service looks like.
"I chose the menu for our dinner tonight, Charlotte. I hope you don't mind letting me guide our meal."
"No, Alexander, I don't mind you leading dinner—and our conversation, too."
Alexander laughed. Rita once wrote in her notes that making a man laugh is a good sign. Now's my chance to ask him questions.
"I'm curious—before I let you lead, what is it that you do? And why can't a successful man like you find company for dinner?"
He placed a napkin on his lap and looked deeply into my eyes.
"Well, I own a couple of companies here. This restaurant, too—actually, the whole building is mine. As for your second question, Charlotte, I have a niche taste in people. Specifically, in women. My friend Phillip, who told me about you, said I should meet you..."
I couldn't resist interrupting.
"What did he say about me?"
I hoped I hadn't just made a rookie mistake.
"He said you're pure, young, and beautiful."
I blushed.
"See? He didn't lie about you."
The waiter brought a bottle of wine and poured it into a slender glass. Alexander took a sip and continued.
"We both know this isn't an ordinary date. I want you to think of it more like a business meeting. I've had plenty of business partners before, but they were all mature in the art of making deals—if you understand my twisted vocabulary." He paused, clearly waiting for my reply.
"I think I know what you mean..."
Of course, a rich and successful man like him wouldn't settle for just one woman. The way his driver and car were prepared makes me think he brings a new woman here every day.
"Perfect. I want to do business with someone who's brand new to this world. Maybe I can guide you, and you can see how you feel about it."
"Alexander, I don't want to be rude, but I only came here for dinner. I don't understand why you want to have any 'business' with me - we just met."
"You came for dinner only...? Are you sure, Charlotte?"
This was the most shameful question I'd ever been asked. But I had nothing to lose, and Rita told me to bend the truth in my favor—men love a girl with a hard-luck story. So I said:
" Dinner and your help. I help you with my company, and you give money. I didn't want to start on this topic, and not sure if your friend told this about me...I am an orphan. The reason he knows about me is my now big sister adopted me. She was or still in relationship with your friend, I believe. So she saved me from being in a terrible place. As you understand from my story, my life is in ruins. I live with my sister and she encouraged me to see you, so I can help us both with paying out rent and getting on both feet for upcoming adulthood."
"See, Charlotte, you learn fast. I'm touched you shared such a deep, intimate part of your life—I do appreciate it. As for help, I'm more than happy to support you," he said, finishing his glass of wine.
"But I want more than that. Of course, I wouldn't offer you anything if I didn't like how you look. But you're like a forbidden fruit I've never tasted before."
His eyes lit up. I could see he was trying hard not to leap across the table, but his self-control was impressive. He sat perfectly still, signaling the waiter for more wine.
"Alexander, I'm flattered. But I don't understand, what do you mean by 'more'?"
"I want us to meet a few times a week. You'll have a dedicated driver - John, whom you've met. He'll pick you up and bring you to wherever I choose. I respect your honesty about your life and lack of experience, but if you agree, would you be open to something more than just dinner dates?"
This was a part of the conversation Rita never prepared me for. I had to answer on my own. In that moment, I felt like there was no time to think, so I remembered what Rita had told me about her own life- how she started seeing her client because she had needs.
I have needs too. If I don't accept his offer, I might not be able to keep myself in a safe financial position. It feels wrong, but what's right in this situation? Either way, I should buy myself some time to think.
As we were talking our food was served. Little did Alexander know that after this "chit-chat" I had zero appetite.
"I need a few days to think about it. I hope you understand...I'm new to this."
I tried to turn his own words back on him.
"Charlotte, the more you speak, the more confident I am in my decision to keep seeing you. Of course, I'll give you time to think. And because you and I are not a simple couple, I'll send your driver tomorrow with an NDA document. Please, read it carefully and let me know your final answer."
An NDA... Is he serious? I know he's rich and probably has a great reputation, but signing a non-disclosure agreement feels insane. It's like I'm being pulled into something illegal.
"I saw your phone when you arrived at the restaurant. I don't want you walking around with such an old model. I'll need you to stay in touch with me if you decide to be with me, so John will bring you a new iPhone tomorrow as well."
There you go... I see why Rita fell into this lifestyle so easily. I couldn't imagine how many months I'd have to work to buy a new phone, but with just one dinner, that question was settled.
"Thank you, Alexander." I blushed and looked away.
"Say that when you actually get the phone," he replied with a smile.
"I don't want you to fall for empty promises. A man like me won't disappoint you when it comes to support—remember that."
Saturday, April 28. 8:15 p.m.
After our dinner date, Alexander told me to meet John at the building's entrance.
"Check the backseat when you get in the car—your envelope with everything you need is there," he whispered.
I was already leaving the restaurant when he called out:
"Charlotte, wait! Let me take a look at you one last time!"
I turned, half-expecting he'd noticed my awkward walk in heels, but he was just gazing at me, his eyes soft.
"You are one of a kind. A precious piece..." he said to himself, softly enough that no one else could hear.
I headed downstairs to meet the driver. The ride home felt like it happened in slow motion, my mind buzzing with questions. I almost forgot about the envelope Alexander mentioned. When I saw it lying on the seat next to mine, I picked it up and peeked inside. I froze: there was $1,000—all crisp, clean $100 bills. I'd never held so much money in my hands before.
As we neared the spot where John had picked me up, I checked my phone for messages or missed calls from mom or Chester - nothing. Maybe it's time to move on. It's not wrong to choose yourself, especially when you were never chosen by the people who is called your family.
Saturday, April 28. 8:59 p.m.
Rita greeted me with a loud scream.
"How did it go? Oh my God, tell me everything! Is he handsome or ugly?!"
I finally took off those heels and walked over to Rita. Without saying a word, I handed her the envelope filled with cash.
We both screamed like little girls. This was my day X, the start of the countdown toward the end of eight months.